


Five Things Mike Can't Forget and One Thing He Can't Remember

by sarcasticchick



Category: Suits (TV)
Genre: 5 Things, Character Study, Developing Relationship, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-10
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-01 18:42:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcasticchick/pseuds/sarcasticchick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What it says on the tin.</p><p>Or, alternatively:</p><p>"An Ode to Mike's Brain, in 6 Parts"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Thing Mike Can't Forget

**Author's Note:**

> Test driving Mike and the Suits 'verse to see how well it rides before attacking the fic prompt that ate my brain, Suits-style. 
> 
> Plus, need to work the kinks out after having not written anything in like, oh, 2-3 years and that just can't happen on something that's plotting out to be rather large, cause I don't do anything half-way.
> 
> Concrit welcome, if anything seems OOC feel free to point out. I've watched the series a half dozen times at least so hopefully nothing is way out of whack. If you want to comment just to comment, that's cool too ;) 
> 
> And if anyone wishes to highlight that I have a thing for characters in an unequal power dynamic where one side is unknowingly/understated-ly brilliant, I've figured that out already. *headdesks and eyes Jack/Ianto, Arthur/Merlin, Harvey/Mike* But feel free to point and mock me.

Mike didn’t know what brought him to his Grammy’s care facility instead of a random bar after his victory in court, but he was there, technically after-hours and looming in the doorway.    
  
Scratch that, he knew full well why he was there, and he lived enough lies he ought to refrain from including himself.    
  
Arms crossed, door frame digging an inverted “V” into his back, Mike watched as his remaining family breathed peacefully in sleep.  _Creepy McCreepyPants_ , he chided himself, sublimating his image for that of a certain vampire’s, although Mike mentally congratulated himself for having better hair.  And he didn’t sparkle.  What kind of vampire sparkled, anyway?  It was a disgrace to Nosferatu and all the undead.  
  
“You‘re developing a habit of watching me sleep.”  
  
Mike snuffed in amusement and shook his head - he’d never been able to pull anything over on his Gram, and apparently he wasn’t starting that night.  As a kid he’d been fairly certain her hair hid eyes that could see everything.  Even through walls.  And across distance.  Especially when he was with Trevor.    
  
Still might be true.    
  
He sat after gracing her forehead with a welcome kiss, still not sure what he would say even if he could find that voice which had played hide and seek the past week.  There had been too many hours spent staring at corporate reports and interviews, finding so many witnesses and seeing so much he couldn’t _unsee_.  His voice had become fire during the court appearances for the _pro bono_ Harvey had dropped on his lap without a word, but outside that room, it all fled in the face of horror and could have been’s.  
  
So much neglect unearthed.  His case - the grandfather of the plaintiff - had not survived that neglect.  And the entire time, spent rolling over what could have happened if he had not stumbled into the meeting with Harvey.    
  
“Michael -”  
  


> \- _Michael_ , from Hebrew, meaning “Who is like God?”, fourth most popular name in the United States according to the 1990 Census, variations include Mike, Mikey, Mick, Mikhail-
> 
> \- Gorbachev, Michael Bolton, Michael Caine, George Michael, Michael Jordan, Michael Keaton, Michael Jackson, Michael J Fox, Mick Jagger, Mickey Mantle, Micky Rooney, Michael Gambon, Michael Imperioli, Michel Chiklis, Michael Landon, Michael Bay, Michael Clark Duncan, Mike Madsen, Michael Rosenbaum, Michael Vartan, Michael Weatherly, Michael C Hall, Michael Vick, Michael Dukakis-
> 
> \- Michael, the Archangel, defend us in battle, be our defense against the wickedness and-       
> 
> \- _Tuesday, June 16, 1992_   “Michael Joseph Ross, get down from that tree before your mother finds out!”  Mike looked down at his father and grinned-
> 
> \- _Monday, October 31, 1994_   “Michael, wait for us.  Don’t get too far ahead!”  
> 
> Mike elbowed Trevor in the side as they ran to the next house, determined to not let the Yellow Ranger defeat Batman.  “POW! Last one there is food for the Joker!”
> 
> Trevor karate chopped the air and Mike spun around, his cape snapping _just like Batman_.  Coolest Halloween _ever_.  Trevor shouted “Go go Power Rangers!” and Mike-  
> 

  


“ -Michael.”  

Mike raised his eyes as he pushed aside everything his name conjured in his mind, making sure his smile said he was happy to see his Grammy, not whatever lingered from the exhausting day.  Week.  Month.  Life.  He was _tired_.  

“You did good today.”

Finally speaking up, Mike sighed and agreed, “I know I did, Grammy.”  He could let it go unsaid or disagree, but he knew his Grammy would take the cane next to her bed and thwap him like a mad crazy person until he agreed.  And he did.  He did agree.  He’d won against a corporation that had eluded justice in the past.  Against a corporation killing people like his Grammy.  He’d done good.  

Even Harvey had smiled, which was like the end of the earth or hell frozen over, Mike wasn’t sure.  But it was one of those, or maybe both.  At the same time.  In plaid.  

His Grammy eyed him, somehow knowing that he‘d won and everything in between, and Mike would again not be surprised if she was psychic, too.  Like Jean Grey, only without the spandex.  

And now his memory needed to be bleached clean of that image - though she‘d make a fabulous superhero -  only clearing his memory was kind of the problem.  

“Whatever it is you saw, you just remember what I said.”

Mike forced a smile, a smile that stretched from ear to ear and was far too chipper for the time of night or the length of the day.  “With great power, comes great responsibility?”

“None of that sass, young man.”

He flinched.  Mike hadn’t heard that tone since he’d went for a joyride in her car when he was fifteen.

Squaring his shoulders in an attempt to look as serious as his response, Mike straightened in his chair.  His Grammy meant it, and he’d had the groundings to prove it.  She’d said it when he was twelve and had been devastated by pictures in an ad funded by PETA about a puppy mill.  Cliched, to be certain.  It was _puppies_.  Cute and adorable puppies that he had cried over, unable to get rid of those images of the deplorable conditions and sickly looking creatures.  

He’d wanted to rescue them all.

Begged his Grammy to do it, too.  She hadn’t - they couldn’t afford one puppy, much less hundreds.  He didn’t eat for days, couldn’t stomach it with those haunting images that would not.go.away.  No matter what he did, no matter what he tried, they were there permanently.  Just like everything else he ever read or heard, but this was _puppies_.  

“My mind is a gift, a gift that brings honor and respect to what I see by never letting them fade into the forgotten,” Mike quoted back, maintaining eye contact for most of it before letting his focus drift away to center around the surfacing images of his client’s grandfather in the care facility, nothing but skin and bones and misery.  “Take victory in the care of those time attempts to erase, because who I am represents the potential of what the world could be.”  

Mike huffed a laugh, shaking his head.  “I don’t know, Grammy.  Pretty heavy responsibility on the shoulders of a kid.”  He wasn’t mocking, no.  But his Grammy always seemed to think he could do so much more with his life, not that she was disappointed in his choices, or maybe she was.  Probably was.  _Mike_ certainly was.  He hadn’t made a whole lot of fabulous decisions in his past, but he was trying.  He was focused now, had a purpose.  And even if he eventually failed at this new role, or was discovered as a fraud or any number of possible outcomes, he was affecting change in those around him.  Hell, even Trevor was on the straight and narrow.  

For the moment, at any rate.  

Secretly, he thought his Grammy sat him down for that conversation as a kid so he wouldn’t put his mind to becoming an evil overlord who would take over the world.  Maybe there was some truth to that.  Being an evil overlord had its merits.  And with that budget, he could save a _lot_ of puppies.

The coincidence was not lost on him that Harvey referred to him as “puppy”.

“You did good today, Michael.”

Mike felt the smile that curved his lips more than he was conscious of performing the action itself in answer to his Grammy’s stressed repeat of her prior observation.  

More than observation, her _pride_ in his actions.

She didn’t know what he had done, what the case had been about or what the victory meant for his client.  She knew, she _trusted_ , that what he did now lived up to her expectations of who he could be.  And Mike, Mike on his part would never forget his client or her grandfather, their story and justice meted now associated with the images that would still haunt, but not hurt.  

He cared, not because he was just a nice person, but because he _needed_ to care.  It was the only thing that made what he saw, heard and remembered worth it.  

“Yeah, I did,” Mike echoed, finally understanding what she was saying.  He grinned, feeling so much lighter than when he had first come in and he held out a fist.  His Grammy returned the action, bumping their fists in an explosion of fingers that made them both laugh.  


	2. The Second Thing Mike Can't Forget

Mike yawned as he padded in bare feet out to the en suite dining area.  The time of day was by far ridiculously early and he still wasn’t sure if it counted as a night of sleep if it was only two hours.  Wouldn’t that be more a nap that happened at night?  A slee-ap.  Naleep?    
  
“Good morning, sunshine.”    
  
Murder, Mike decided, was entirely possible this morning.  Once the sun rose.    
  
Glaring at a way too chipper Harvey who already sat at the table, Mike plotted.  The suit would be involved, pristinely pressed and reeking of alertness, maybe the tie, too.  Strangulation?  Nah, too much energy involved which Mike severely lacked.  Harvey’s hair was even perfectly coifed and eager for the day, not a hair drooping in weariness after the cross-country flight in which they somehow gained three hours but lost a night of sleep thanks to their client so that made it like, five hundred years since the last time he slept.    
  
Hair gel!  Maybe Harvey could drown in his own hair gel.    
  
“Next time, maybe you’ll listen to me and sleep on the plane.”  
  
Mike stopped and tilted his head, pondering the merits of death by spoon.  The Sheriff of Nottingham’s idea had merit, sure.  But he couldn’t quite work out the logistics of required force versus the overall dullness of the object.  Maybe the angle would make a difference-  
  
“And no, you cannot kill me before breakfast.  Now, sit and eat something.  If you want something hot, you can get that sent up.”    
  
The bastard hadn’t even looked up from the newspaper.    
  
Mike rolled his eyes then took inventory of the breakfast items scattered about the table.  Bagels, exotic fruits, some kind of weird granola that looked more bark than cereal, and he was fairly certain that the yogurt was manufactured by hand by nuns in a retreat only accessible by dirigible.    
  
Shaking his head, Mike turned away from the table and wandered back to his room, scratching his belly and cracking the widest damned yawn to ever yawn a yawn.  He felt moderately more awake after that, much more than his shower had managed, and refocused on why he had returned to his room that didn’t include killing Harvey.  Not that Mike was heeding Harvey’s orders, but he could get much more inventive than a spoon.  
  
Unless it was a _grapefruit spoon_.  Now that, was a possibility with a much higher success rate.  
  
He rummaged around his suitcase and returned to the dining area with his box, plopping it down amidst the exceedingly ridiculous cutlery and dining ware.  He didn’t care, just nabbed an object that he assumed was a bowl but was shaped more like a plate with a high rim, and poured himself some cereal.  Papers rustled and then stopped, the silence making it awkward to pour the milk from a crystal carafe that was probably worth more than Mike himself.  He didn’t spill a drop or drop the carafe, thankfully, and dug into the cereal with a gusto he certainly did not feel while reaching for the section of the paper not currently claimed by Harvey.  
  
“You brought … Cheerios.“  Mike could hear disbelief tinged with disdain in Harvey’s voice and paused with spoon to his lips before he could even take a bite.  “Explain.”  
  
Mike set his spoon down in the bowl-plate, and rubbed his hand over his face, trying to think of a rational way to explain his need for Cheerios in the morning.  His parents had originally figured it out, and his Grammy was more than happy to accept without question.  The people he’d dated in the past, whether they thought it odd or not, they never said much less _asked_.  And Trevor, well, Trevor was Trevor who teased when it was just them, and threatened to punch anyone else who looked at Mike funny for his breakfast habits.    
  
Glancing at the remains of Harvey’s omelet and slices of turkey bacon, Mike knew he had at least a starting point and gestured with his now-empty hand.  “December 17th, 2011.  Denver omelet at Sam’s Diner, two blocks from my apartment.  Worked on the Ladermen contract while consuming a metric ton of coffee and the best hash browns a person can find at three in the morning.  Before that, October 11th, 2011.  Sam’s again, garden omelet with a side of sausage links.  Prior to that, it was June 17th, 2011.  Then February 23rd.  November 6th, 2010.  November 5th, 2010, Sam was having a special that week.”    
  
He stopped himself, risking a look at Harvey but found nothing except maybe a confused, curious interest.  The more telling sign was the newspaper, now twisted in his hands and no longer legible, unless one preferred to read by way of Moebius strips. Mike briefly wondered if it had ever been attempted and would there be a market for that.  It’d be cool, but probably not practical.    
  
Mike continued, hoping something made sense in the litany of words unfiltered by sleep deprivation as he tried to explain.  “I start every morning with Cheerios and the newspaper, usually with a glass of orange juice.  I’ll remember every breakfast, but it’s the same thing.  It …. blurs.”  He points to the labels on the box, “while the pictures may change, the labels remain the same.  The ingredients are the same, the nutritive values are the same, there’s nothing new to process or remember in the morning's breakfast.  Nothing _new_ to add; giving me some peace before the day really begins,” Mike emphasized, wondering not the first time for his sanity.    
  
Harvey looked like he was about to speak but Mike continued, knowing there were probably questions he didn’t know the answers for because this just worked and he didn’t know if there was a logical way to present the reason.  “With the newspaper, I read the date and the news events.  And then everything that follows that day, I can associate with that morning’s newspaper.  There’s a way to organize _everything_ and be able to recall it in some kind of … tagged fashion.  I have additional tricks for books and documents, but all of that would just … end up in a tangled frightening disaster that would probably make me go crazy.  My parents - my mom - she was the same way.  It was her method of coping.”  
  
He paused for breath, done with words, which was funny in and of itself as he could recite the entire dictionary.    
  
Mike watched as Harvey set aside the newspaper and leaned back in his chair, studying him with far more intensity than should be possible for the hour.  When no taunts emerged, Mike felt his body relax, a tension he hadn’t known had crept into his shoulders unwound itself and left him feeling worn out.  Not in the ’haven’t slept in five hundred years’ sense of tired, but had just fought a battle he hadn’t been prepared to fight, which wasn‘t actually a battle but Mike was certain Leonidas would have understood.    
  
Maybe.  In some fashion.  
  
His brain really needed to work on this whole ‘cognizance in the morning’ thing.    
  
Confessions of an American college dropout over, Mike took a deep breath, rolled the shoulders that no longer protested movement and put all focus on his cereal, not Harvey.  He was deluding himself to think that he’d be able to explain himself or why, especially to Harvey.  Not that his boss’ opinion mattered.    
  
Except it did.    
  
Especially when Mike found himself short on friends and when he was honest with himself, Harvey was at the top of a very small list.    
  
“When you get bored with being a lawyer, Tony.”  Mike’s head snapped up in confusion - spoon of Cheerios yet to make it all the way to his mouth - and for the first time ever questioned _Harvey’s_ sanity.  “Before you go all Iron Man, you’re putting me on retainer.”  
  
Mike raised his eyebrow, the joke getting tired and the answers just as worn (and not to be believed, as Mike understood what made his boss tick a little more every day), but he just couldn‘t stop the repetition.  “You care about me.”    
  
“No, I care about me, and representing a trouble-magnet, billionaire superhero would make me an inordinate amount of money.”  
  
Warmth spread like poured honey through Mike’s stomach, then out to his limbs in a slow crawl of realization.  The look Harvey currently wore, it was similar to the one Mike had seen back in the hotel, when Harvey discovered what Mike could do, just by reading and processing a few books.    
  
 _Respect_.    
  
Maybe not in the traditional sense, maybe not in any sense people tend to use the word.  Or maybe it was precisely that.  No matter, Mike could parse out the lines in between, everything unsaid which maybe Harvey couldn’t say.  Or wouldn’t.  But Mike had heard it, loud and clear, with a neon sign blinking the words.    
  
Harvey _understood_.    
  
And that knowledge was overwhelming, terrifying, and at the same time, _glorious_.    
  
That, and he’d just compared Mike to Tony Stark, which was in and of itself totally awesome, and also meant that his closet-Trekker boss was a fan of Marvel comics.  Or at least the movies.  But Mike confidently modified his image of Harvey into a secret geek, pouring over Marvel and DC comics on the weekends.  
  
“You’ve got fifteen minutes to wrap up your breakfast and finish dressing.”  
  
Harvey interrupted Mike’s creation of Harvey the Wonder Geek with a flick to his forehead.  Startled, Mike turned as Harvey exited the dining area to his own room, but the action had not been quick enough for Mike to miss something so rarely seen.    
  
He’d left the room, a smile upon his face.  
  
Grinning like a fool, especially knowing Harvey couldn’t see, Mike turned back to the Cheerios he was sure were mush at this point but not really giving a damn.  He looked at the paper, read the date twice just to ensure the permanence of the day in is head.  Not that he’d forget, ever, but the importance of remembering this day was something that was not something Mike wanted to risk to change or take too lightly.  
  
With no interruptions, Mike finally ate his cereal, keeping the blur to the background while skimming the front page.  
  


> \- Februrary 12, 2012, Cheerios and orange juice while reading the paper.  February 11, 2012, Cheerios and orange juice while reading the paper.  February 10, 2012, Cheerios and orange juice while reading the paper.  February 9, 2012, Cheerios and orange juice while reading the paper.  February 8-  
> 

  


***

The following morning, Mike blearily stumbled out to the dining area to find it empty of Harvey, but he found a new box of Cheerios on the table with a proper bowl and a glass of orange juice.    


	3. The Third Thing Mike Can't Forget

“Hey, Donna-”  
  
“No.”  
  
Mike blinked and slowed his approach to Donna‘s desk, but he didn’t let her answer to his unspoken question deter him.  Wasn‘t the question he was intending to ask, at least not initially, although he did need to get in to Harvey‘s office to give him the update on the Anderson merger documents.  “Ah, okay.  So you and your parents didn‘t have a great time this weekend?”  Mike heard the clatter of keys slow, then stop all together.  Donna’s face gave him nothing, her expression so skillfully blank that Mike made a mental note never to play poker with her.  Ever.    
  
He hesitated a moment before leaning an elbow on her desk, trying to look as innocent as he could under her solemn scrutiny and not squirm for every past offense, including taking that cookie from the cookie jar in first grade that his mother forbid him to eat before dinner.  There was no way Donna could know about that.    
  
At least, Mike felt certain that she couldn’t know.  Maybe.    
  
Puppy eyes had always worked with Jenny, that and a hopeful look that passed as honest interest.  Because he was interested, even if no one at work had an interest in his life.  He couldn’t turn it off like everyone else seemed to be able to, except when it was about scoring points and then he just stayed out of those competitions.  Kyle and Greg seemed to have a fascination with how much alcohol they could consume and still function the next day, Louis had his sex life and body image issues he felt the need to share and if Mike hadn’t seen enough Louis to turn him off of sex permanently, then nothing would.  Although, to temper that image, Mike now had a chastity-melting image of his boss in lounge-wear and ruffled hair from their recent trip to Los Angeles, which was enough to counterbalance naked!Louis by a factor of ten.      
  
Twenty?  Maybe twenty.  At least fifteen and a half.  
  
The longer Mike stood there, the less comfortable he became, which was probably Donna’s intent, wicked goddess that she was.  But he was sincere, and he thought by now she realized that.  Unless…shit, maybe things had gone terribly wrong over the weekend and he was just reopening wounds that had temporarily healed.  Maybe they didn’t make it to the city.    
  
Maybe - oh god, no, he would have heard from someone, wouldn’t he?  Wouldn’t Harvey have told him if something happened to them?  Donna wasn‘t that dedicated to the job that she‘d come in if … would she?  And of course, his mind jumped to worse case scenarios so quickly he had no time to reign them in.  “Harvey said,” Mike hastily started, catching the fumbles and wishing his brain wasn’t flying through all the recent local newspaper articles, looking for any accidents because it was making it that much harder to get anything coherent past his lips, “he said they were, I mean, they did make it to New York, right?”  
  
Mike’s mind was being ridiculous, he knew it was.  But he just couldn’t _stop it_ , not when it pertained to someone he knew and considered, well, not family, but acquaintance.  Maybe even friend.  Articles with ledes including 'accident' were quickly called up and dismissed, likewise were ’murder’ and ’robbery’ when they did not contain the correct information.  Anyone local was dismissed.  Altercations involving a single person summarily thrown out.  When those failed to present any likely suspects, Mike cooled the frantic pace of recall, reality assuring him somewhat that at least nothing pertained if they had made it to New York to begin with.  
  
Utterly at fault, his mindset was to be blamed for everything after that point.    
  
It was a stupid ringtone that did it.    
  
Somewhat still convinced that something dreadful had happened to Donna’s parents, Mike caught the tune on the mail clerk’s phone as he passed Donna’s desk and-  
  


> \- _Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world_ -
> 
> \- “Don’t Stop Believin” - Journey - track number one on album “Escape” released in 1981 -
> 
> \- Steve Perry, lead vocals.  Neal Schon, guitar and vocals.  Ross Valory, bass and vocals.  Steve Smith, percussion.  Jonathan Cain, keyboards, piano, guitar, and vocals -
> 
> \- “Strangers, waiting.  Up and down the boulevard!” Mike let his voice carry with the radio, not caring how on or off pitch his rendition was.  No one was in but his Grammy, and she wouldn’t care so long as he finished his homework.  
> 
> Which, ugh.  He hated.  Like clam chowder.  Or lima beans.  Both.  _Combined_.  
> 
> His pencil scribbled out the answers, not bothering to look up the information cause he’d read back in September when the year had started.  “For if knowledge is power, a God am I!”  Mike laughed and asked his Mech-Godzilla watching him from its perch on the window ledge beside him, “Was that over the top?  I never can tell.”  He pushed the arm down and Mech-Godzilla roared his response.  
> 
> The chorus finally picked up and Mike jumped from his chair which lost balance and tipped on to the floor, but that didn’t matter for Mike’s awesome air guitar.  “Don’t stop, believing!  Hold on to that feeling!”  
> 
> The doorbell chimed, and Mike forgot about his pencil-erasure-microphone while racing down the stairs to get to the door before Grammy could.  Trevor was coming over and most of his homework was done.  He could get the rest of it done in the morning.  Or maybe before bed.  Or during bed - he could answer those questions in his sleep.  
> 
> Grammy beat him to the door though, and his stocking-covered feet almost slid out from under him as he avoided crashing into the decorative table thing his mom had placed at the base of the stairs.  He ducked under Grammy’s arm at the door to greet Trevor when he stopped, Grammy’s hand on his shoulder and two police officers at the door.  
> 
> “Whatever it is, I didn’t do it,” Mike stated immediately, taking in the badge numbers and the guns holstered at their hips.  Guns.  Like, real shoot up the bad guys guns.  He honestly had no idea what he had done - well, he’d done a _lot_ \- but nothing that merited guns, he didn’t think.  Handcuffs, maybe, but he and Trevor had figured out how to unlock those already if he had a paperclip.
> 
> “Michael, go to your room, please.”
> 
> Mike didn’t move though, just squirmed out of Grammy’s grasp and planting himself squarely between her and the police officers.  Crossing his arms, Mike tried to stand taller than his eleven years would allow.  No one came after his Grammy.  Not even police officers with guns.  
> 
> “Son, you should listen to your grandmother.  We just want to talk with her.”
> 
> Looking in confusion between the cops and his Grammy, he saw something on her face that terrified him.  His arms fell to his sides cause he kind of forgot that he was supposed to be doing something with them, only remembering once they hit his hips that they up to defend.  But his Grammy was … something he hadn’t seen before and didn’t understand.  Mike did the only thing he could think to do - aside from glaring at the mean cops who were scaring his Grammy - he hugged her with all the force he could -  
> 

  


Mike stopped that memory, forcing it down to parts where it remained quiet, undisturbed.  He hadn’t thought about that day in a long time, probably wouldn’t have except for the coinciding events.  The song he’d long accepted for music that was extremely popular and he needed to just go with it or have his sanity checked at the door every time a movie, tv show, or radio station played it.  The rest, well, he had his Grammy, and between the two of them, they made a family.

“You know what?  Never mind,” Mike quickly forestalled anything that Donna intended to say, not caring how rude he was being when she had started the whole fiasco with her passive no-answer and her parents were most likely okay else she‘d be working the tears right now.  Which wasn’t fair to blame her, she was just being Donna but he had had enough for the moment.  Enough of everyone and this whole business of disinterest, including the mail clerk who still hadn’t answered his damned phone.  

… _Just a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit_ …

With a glare at the man stupid enough to leave his ringer on while out on the floor - hypocrisy be damned, Mike learned his lesson a long time ago - Mike handed the files to Donna.  It was easy establishing that his boss was occupied - Harvey was on the phone with someone important, although his focus seemed to be on Mike.  Or Donna.  Or both of them.  Probably for disrupting his greatness, even visually.  “Would you please give these to Harvey when he’s off the phone?  I’m going to step out for a minute.”  

Mike ignored the fact that he was a mere associate and everyone else owned his time and that Donna absolutely did not have to answer to him, at _all_ , and walked away without waiting for a response.  It was unprofessional.  It was disrespectful.  He’d have to apologize and beg forgiveness later.  But right now, he just needed to get out and away from the epicenter of _not caring_.  He jabbed at the elevator button with way more force than was necessary, and when the doors closed around him, he gave in and pinched the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache building while tugging at his strangling tie with the other.    

It wasn’t fair, to any of them, not his misplaced anger or his frustration, all pent up and spun wild by things he‘d rather not think about.  He didn’t play by their rules, but then, they didn’t play by his.  Logically, Mike knew he needed to adapt or flame out spectacularly.  And he was learning, slowly.  Conquering this world of money, entitlement, and self-centered, cutthroat ruthlessness wasn’t something that could be found in books, and it certainly could not be found in any of the welcome packets Harvard Law had included on his ’visit.’  It made it difficult, but not impossible.  

And Mike wasn’t going to let the game defeat him.  He just had to figure out how to get it to work with how he wanted to play.

He found himself at the coffee vendor outside the building without his wallet, embarrassing had it not been for a voice over his shoulder saying his coffee was on her, and add to the order a skinny no-sugar caramel latte with real whipped cream.        

Mike took his coffee without question, waited a few minutes while the second was made before strolling down the sidewalk with Donna at his side.

“Sometimes, I forget not everyone has ulterior motives.”

He accepted Donna’s words as the apology he’d never hear voiced, but was absolutely intended.  And as the slight to his character, a variation so wildly different from the common culture that he’d be lucky to survive without backup.   Mike understood - didn’t mean he liked it - but he did understand.

“Mind if I ask, why was I two seconds from calling security on you for assaulting Jimmy?”

Mike considered not answering.  Donna had asked permission, and he wasn’t required to respond.  Twenty steps later and two sips of coffee, Mike decided he didn’t give one fig about the game.  She was walking with him when she had no cause to join him other than possibly as a friend.  “It’s silly, just a song I heard right before … I heard some bad news.  Caught me off-guard today and I remembered something I try to avoid.”  Mike buried any additional response beneath another sip of coffee, cooling but still hot enough to burn just a little.  Things were just a bit too raw, not to mention, the whole situation verged on the embarrassing now that his temper had cooled.

“You remember everything, don’t you.”

Donna’s careful study and murmured statement - not question - puzzled Mike, because surely Harvey had told her.  Or she had figured it out long ago that it wasn’t an average pothead that could walk into a law firm and fake his qualifications enough to pass even the most cursory of tests.  He shrugged instead of answering.  

“My parents and I had a lovely weekend, went to the Met and a basketball game, and they made it safely home to Bethesda.  It was kind of you to ask.”

With a smile hidden behind his coffee at the tiny glimpse Donna permitted into her life, Mike drained the last of his caffeinated escape and tossed it in a waste bin they passed.  They were almost back to Pearson Hardman, and Mike mentally prepped himself to return.  He had the briefs Louis had given him to proof, a contract and business history Harvey wanted him to familiarize himself with, in short, only three days of work to complete in one than the usual five.

“Oh, and sweetie?”  

Mike looked at Donna with a degree of wariness learned through a year of watching Donna and knowing this was not the pleasant tone of their previous conversation.  He refused to let his eyes widen as she stopped him and straightened his tie, though he was pretty sure braver men than he would have fled by now.  

“Order me around again and I’ll crush your balls in my fist without breaking a nail.  Good talk.”

Donna patted him on the chest after finishing his tie and with a smirk, strode back to the office with the walk of a woman who knew she owned the space through which she moved.  Mike stared for only a moment before running after her because he’d forgotten his security badge, too, and needed her to clear him.

***

Later that day, Mike was nearly through proofing the exceedingly dull Karedy briefs when Jimmy passed with the mail cart again.  His phone rang, obnoxiously as before, but this time the ringtone rang out a tinny version of “Back in Black.”  

Mike knew it was not coincidence.  And he should be outraged that anyone could be directed to change their ringtone on a personal device.  But that didn’t stop the burn of awareness that maybe while the business of corporate cutthroat disinterest at Pearson Hardman continued, not everyone played _exactly_ by those rules.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Movie quote by kid!Mike from 'Batman Forever' and obviously, lyrics from Journey's 'Don't Stop Believin'.


End file.
